Ghosts and Art
by Gumball2
Summary: Lucy has come down with a terrible ailment: writer's block. As she struggles to reignite her spark, she gets a little inspiration from someone seeking her help.


_"Days. What's the point of them?_

 _We move through life and nothing changes_

 _We might as well be frozen_

 _In time because"_

Because what? Through her bushy black locks, Lucy stared at the garish blank space before her. Normally, words poured onto the page with the flick of a pen (especially when writing free verse). But rhyming was a different mechanism. It required structure, concentration, precision, and a rich vocabulary.

What rhymes with "changes"? There was "ranges", "arranges", "exchanges". All of them were fine words on their own. But none of them fit so cleanly in this verse. Alas, this was the cruel reality of crafting a rhyme scheme. It was only at the end of the phrase when you realized that you had boxed yourself in, leaving you to either start over or jam in the first word that popped to mind.

Lucy tapped her black pen against her chin, contemplating her next action. Of course, there was always the option of switching to free verse, giving her the choice to end the sentence in the most logical way. But how did that reflect upon her as a writer? Did Edgar Allan Poe change his mind in the middle just because poetry got hard? She had thought that it was that very difficulty that made his work so admiring, what distinguishes him (and others) from those that literally wrote the first thing that popped in their head.

 _"In time because nothing else exchanges,"_ she wrote.

Exchanges what, though? Perhaps this was just her own way of saying that nothing matters. Indeed, that was an important theme to include. After all, time was only something people made up to make sense of all the chaos going on, to divide up its sequence in an orderly fashion. What did a day really mean? For all Lucy cared, it could have just been called a "moon", which anyone could determine the length of (she theorized it was twenty-seven days in human time).

But even with that, her eyes were now transfixed on that line. Sure, her mind was able to make sense of it. But who was to say that anyone else would? Did those people matter?

Sighing, Lucy spent some more time pouring through all the rhymes and choices she could pursue. Thus was the curse of writing. It was so easy to do and yet there were so many wrong approaches. Perhaps there was a sentence where all the words were clunky. Sure she could find a viable rhyme if she packed in enough words, but that would have been a nightmare to read (plus an eyesore). What distinguished the greats from a monkey with a typewriter was the sense of wordscraft, knowing how many words to insert and which ones to include.

Multiple possibilities came to mind, an inevitability from constantly thinking about poetry. At first, their sheer number was enough to give her relief. But the thing about relief was that it rarely lasted. As Lucy chugged through each of them, she was promptly disappointed when its uselessness was realized. And for each idea she exhausted, she was further deterred when nothing new surfaced. No, she thought, it couldn't be.

But alas, Lucy was stricken with writer's block. It was the worst ailment that could befall an artist like her. She would have sold her soul (if she had one) to be able to write endlessly on all the supernatural and mortal topics that had to be confronted. But her brain told her otherwise.

Lucy reluctantly closed her journal and plopped it aside her. The girl sighed and sprawled herself across the bed. What a world this was. There was so much darkness that its abundance tricked her into thinking it could be encapsulated in a neat, well-structured poem. But such was reality. Even the darkness had to be complicated and the art of writing so intricate. How was anyone supposed to receive at least a little comfort if there was no outlet?

As she slumped further into her pillow, Lucy noticed Luna walking past her doorway. She didn't pay her big sister much mind; the teenager was probably going about her ordinary existence (retreating to her own isolated cubicle to screech out noise).

But fate had a different idea. Rather than continuing on her predicted path, Luna slowed her step as she stopped by Lucy's open doorway. Admittedly, such a view made her own posture transparent, however Lucy didn't think she appeared that far out of her usual appearance (despite the horrible plague ravaging her creative fibers).

"Hey sis," Luna said with a grin.

Lucy's natural response was a sigh. Such was expected from someone of her archetype. It was widely understood that distinct emotions could be made out through subtle nuances in the way her vocal cords delivered the sound. Lucy intended for it to convey "I'm fine." Yet the intentions her mind carefully laid out didn't always translate into effective expression. Her voice was even more gravely than usual.

Clearly, her big sister got the "message". Luna slipped into the room and found herself a seat on the bed.

"What's happening?" She asked cooly.

Wasn't it obvious, Lucy thought to herself. Edgar Allan Poe's ghost was probably looking down on her, disappointed that his influence was stymied by the most rudimentary of creative roadblocks. It was like he had whispered into her unsuspecting sister's ear, urging her to make this fact known. No need for that, she concluded.

"Nothing significant," Lucy said simply.

Now that that business was settled, Luna could move on with her day, return to whatever music she was crafting. Or so Lucy thought. Remarkably, Luna was still on the bed smiling. Well, even if she did have a tidbit of creative energy, it would have been flushed down the toilet (only it wouldn't have clogged).

"So listen," Luna said, scratching her head, "I was in the middle of writing a song and I'm kinda stuck," she then gestured to Lucy. If she were anyone else, she would have jumped to attention at that motion, "and you're great at rhyming and poetry. So did you wanna help me out?"

Using her arms, Lucy pushed herself backward. Her spine curved up along her fluffy blanket, easing her into a sitting position. After several more moments, she inhaled.

"I dunno...my lake of art is in the midst of an arid drought," Lucy said dryly. It was remarkable she said that without sighing. That was an accomplishment.

"No worries, sis," Luna cheerfully replied, "maybe I can get your juices up an' runnin'!"

Well. What could she say? Sure her big sister was naive of the true darkness shrouding every part of life. It was a flaw a lot of her family possessed and course correction has been an uphill struggle (to say the least). But when it came to writing, Lucy was willing to take just about anything at this point. Besides, there was nothing that could be done to spread awareness if she couldn't bleed the ink onto the paper.

Lucy silently plopped herself off the bed. Her flat feet had a hard landing, causing her to stumble. Luna, though, was patient. After all, she was just happy that her little sister was getting up to spend time with her.

The short walk from her room to her big sister's abode was insignificant (like most things). It was only when she caught glimpse of the familiar sight: bunk bed, purple walls, and musical instruments that she felt a little tinge in her chest. What was that? How was it that after all her times of seeing this same room that this one visit gave her some kind of sensation? Biology was an unusual subject.

"So anyway," Luna said as she snatched some loose leaf paper off her sheets, "I've been cranking out some lyrics and I was hoping I could get a second pair of eyes to look at them."

"Whatever passes time's cruel progression," Lucy said. She held her cold hand out. Her fingers jutted out, remaining as frozen shards of rock. Luna was unfazed and slid the parchment into her sister's hand.

If there was one skill Luna lacked, it was calligraphy. The words were scribbled on the crumpled page through a series thin, vague black pen lines. Lucy deduced that her sister didn't use a hard surface; judging from the creases, Luna may have even written it out while it was gripped in her hand midair. It was an odd practice, given the presence of hard bedrocks that could have been used (the wall, her drums, her bed). Perhaps it was best to count her blessings. At least she could make out the message.

 _"When I walk into the hall_

 _And see you standing tall,_

 _I just don't know what to say._

 _Your music knocks me out_

 _And I wanna stand and shout_

 _How you always make my day."_

So far, so good. Luna had a much better grasp of rhyming than her. It made her think of all those times where her head flooded with big, complicated words (how many words rhymed with "progression"?). It was awakening to see such poetic magic being cast with ordinary phrases.

 _"You seem to get who I am._

 _You wanna soar in the sky with me._

 _I'm gonna rise up and make you see_

 _I'm in love with you, Sam."_

There it was, Lucy concluded. Luna had never turned to her for help with lyrics before. And now, the Princess of Darkness was called upon to address warm and fuzzy feelings. Well, to say that Lucy wasn't knowledgeable on this ideal was a stretch; she knew what friendship was from her covert following of _Princess Pony_.

But how did Luna know that was the question. No, Luna couldn't have possibly known Lucy's appreciation for that colorful cartoon. Taken literally, the only task her older sister asked of her was to help her with structure, with general poetic conventions, and to channel the spirit of Edgar Allan Poe to revitalize her creative wit. Not much to ask for (in theory).

Well, none of those things were gonna get done if she kept pondering. Reminding herself of her mission, she continued.

 _"We could rock the world together_

 _Riding on the backs of adoring fans._

 _Every note will be our surfing board_

 _As we follow our hearts' commands._

 _All I wanna see is for someone like you_

 _To know that I will stay true."_

Lucy glanced up at her eager sister. She noticed Luna peeking her ears up, as if the gesture was an indication that there was feedback on the way. And indeed, there was some to be had.

"Your rhyming scheme is inconsistent," Lucy said monotonously. Sure enough, as she skimmed through the lines she already read, the issue became more apparent. Such was the nature of art. It was hard to make something good, but it was easy to see something bad.

"Okay. Should I pick one and stick with it?" Luna asked. She then leaned back towards one of her guitars, which was propped up against the wall, "It's just that I already worked out a rockin' tune to put these words to and I don't wanna make it clunky or anything."

"You don't have to change the meter," Lucy answered, "just pick two lines in a stanza and keep rhyming in those places. That way, people won't think you're just doing it where it's most convenient."

"Sure," Luna said, "I guess I was a little excited to get this stuff out that I just scribbled down the first thing that came to mind."

Luna was known for being laid back. Her chill posture and carefree face could withstand a great deal of suffering and misfortune. In fact, Lucy had come to admire her big sister in moments of grave uncertainty. She accepted attention with open arms, often didn't care what others thought, and gave more than she received.

While Lucy accepted the fact that she bore a more reclusive temperament, even she admired her sister's confidence. Admittedly, there were moments where she wished she were more Luna. She wished she had the strength to put up with teasing the same way she and Lincoln could. She yearned for the ability to make herself heard when others accidentally stepped all over her. And as much as enjoyed life's emptiness and the universe's alluring darkness, Lucy wasn't above caving into the sorrow, rendered too worn down to do anything. Even writing couldn't always bolster her resolve.

And yet, here Luna was blushing. Her eyes darted back and forth, as if she didn't want to be in the same room as her. It was a miracle she was stuttering (then again, that was hard to do when you weren't speaking to begin with).

"I'm sorry," Luna said nervously. Lucy thought this was the moment, "it's just, um, that I want this song to be totally perfect an' all...y'know."

Nodding her head, Lucy read through the rest of the song. Luna grew anxiously as her little sister became a pale gray stone. Everything she could see was completely frozen. Her hands twitched at several points, unable to fathom what Lucy had to say. If she didn't like, then how could Sam?

What Luna didn't know, however, was that those hidden eyes were actually re-reading the whole in its entirety. Something within those messy words nagged at her, pulled at her inner psyche. Lucy wasn't ready to deliver the right feedback just yet.

Yes, the poetry had technical issues (the rhyme scheme never improved). But did those really matter? And the more she read, the more she felt nagged in. It was odd.

On one hand, it was like when she read Poe (or any other great writer). Their souls were reaching their warm hand from the other side and yanking her around, thrusting some feeling upon her. Usually, it was their melancholy, distress, or nausea they were channeling through their words. And to be perfectly honest, Lucy rarely went back herself to see if their meter or rhyme scheme was consistent or not:

But this wasn't about any of those familiar emotions. There was only one beloved book that (occasionally) delved into romance. And interestingly, Edwin happened to be her idol (second only to Poe himself). Yes, it was true that there were so many other things going on in Edwin's adventures: secrets, horror, the supernatural, and everything in between. However, she knew that deep down, it was a love story. And she enjoyed it.

Edwin was her soulmate, even though they couldn't communicate directly. He taught her the value of joy, even if it was often shoved aside by all the other blackness. It was like an untarnished sliver of gold buried deep within a gravel-filled cemetery. Only those that were strong of heart possessed the determination to dig through every obscure and forgotten corner until its purity shone through nature's rubble.

Luna was the one carrying the shovel, working tirelessly into the night. Disregarding the structure, the message was unquestionable and genuine. Her big sister, after all, was a passionate person who was used to proclaiming her thoughts in a clear, yet emotional package. Maybe that's all there was to it, Lucy thought.

As Lucy lowered the paper, Luna snapped to attention. Her knees were buckled, her arms became rigid stacks of plywood, and her eyes became glued to her.

"I liked it," she said.

Luna's pupils widened.

"Really?" she asked desperately.

If Luan were here, she'd find something funny about this, Lucy thought. Her head was full of answers and for once, they had a clear passageway to the mouth, leaving the area loose and ready to move. She continually asked herself if this was what confidence felt like, what Luna normally had. Did the Great Spirit swap their bodies' souls?

"When Edwin had a crush, he was able to woo her with a poem just like this song," Lucy said, lifting up the paper, "he said that it doesn't matter if you can find a rhyme for everything. All that matters is the feeling you get in your...um..."

By then Luna had regained her mobility, especially in her face. And right then, she was more than eager to use it. She smiled and contorted her eyebrows in a curvy, inquisitive fashion.

"Your..." Luna said, teasingly.

Lucy took a step back. If her big brother Lincoln were here, he could have given her a pat on the back. Why, Great Spirit? Why did you have to swap souls back so soon? But Luna was searching for an answer (one that both of them already knew). With her depleted strength, she used her lonely figure to draw a circle around the left side of her chest, awkwardly quivering her lips.

Luna chuckled and stretched her arms.

"Come here, you!" Luna said endearingly.

At first, Lucy told herself to resist. Hugs were mushy and often made her uncomfortable. The murmuring in her head told her that nothing was different here.

But Luna's face said it all. This was more than necessary after all that she had done. Of course Luna wasn't gonna merely stop at "I love you". This was the same person that organized a whole concert and invited a big name rock band just to show her gratitude after she helped her get a few extra dollars. So if anything, a hug was the bare minimum she was willing to offer.

Besides, the longer she stood there, the more Lucy recalled the song itself. Love was a powerful feeling, whether it was a girl trying to impress another girl or two sisters spending time together.

Ultimately, the choice was never really there as Luna practically lifted her and completely enveloped her. Luna's warmth quickly took over the darkness, filling Lucy with the same joy she got from Princess Pony. It truly was magical hearing her big sister chuckle and seeing her smile.

"Thanks sis! You're the best!"

As Lucy absorbed the moment, her mind returned to herself. What was wrong with just letting the feelings come out naturally, regardless of whether or not they rhymed (or better yet, if the scheme stayed the same). In the end, all that mattered was that the person that took their time to read it would get something tangible out of it.

Her big sister Luna was the master of that.

"Thank you," Lucy said as her face felt something strange. Most times, she would have been horrified by the scary transformation befalling her. But with Luna around, she was able to let go of technicalities and let it all sink it.

The goth girl was smiling.


End file.
